PS " 

35"// 




ttmtmmm 



cmmmmm 




POEMS BY 
HORTENSE FLEXNER 




affi^Sr 



II ■ w« l l«l|<IMW»WI— ■!■«>**■«»"«« " ■ "" ■■ ■ 'I 




V 



r* t 



Class 

Book s U j j-L/ 6 

CopightN°_^_J 

CQEXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Clouds and Cobblestones 
Poems 



Clouds and Cobblestones 
Poems 



By 

HORTENSE FLEXNER 
it 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

<ffl*z ftiter?it>e $re?g £ambtit»ge 

1920 



&> 






V.„,o 



COPYRIGHT, I92O, BY HORTENSE FLEXNER KING 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



j.d-o 



OCT 29 1920 
©CLA601160 






K 



5 



TO MY 
MOTHER AND FATHER 



NOTE 

Following is a list of poems included in this 
collection which have been published in maga- 
zines : 

"Fulfillment," "Belief," "Treasure," "Win- 
dow-Candle," "A Girl in the Crowd," and 
"Four Things" in The Smart Set; "A Chinese 
Singer of 1200 B. C," "The Holiday," and "If 
God had Known," in the London Bookman; 
"Faith" and "Purchase," in Harper's; "Re- 
membrance" in the Atlantic Monthly; "The 
Potter's Park," in the Century; "For a Child" 
and "For a Portrait," in the Boston Transcript; 
"Sand," in Contemporary Verse; "Hunger," 
"Flanders Hill," and "Return from Captivity," 
in The Liberator; "Compulsion," in The Seven 
Arts; "Perfection," "Newswoman," "A Sky- 
Scraper," "Futility," "Pierrot," "Peter Pan," 
and "The Lost Pleiad," in the BrynMawr Lan- 
tern; "Longing" and "Minor Poet," in Poetry: 
A Magazine of Verse; "To a Grasshopper," in 
the New York Sun; "Munitions," in The New 
Republic; "Death-Mask of an Unknown Sol- 
dier" and "Foreboding," in the North Ameri- 
can Review; "Gifts," "A Child," "Children's 
Ward," and "Wandering," in The Survey; 
"Troy, 1915," "The Goblin at Rheims," and 
"Bagdad," in the New York Times; "Death 

vii 



will not Dare," in the Louisville Courier- 
Journal; "For an Old Lady to whom Sonnets 
had been Written," in Vanity Fair; "Street of 
Good Fortune — Pompeii/' in the Michigan 
Inlander; "Dowager," in the Bryn Mawr Re- 
view; "Snuff-Boxes," in Life. 



vm 



CONTENTS 




Faith 


1 


Remembrance 


2 


Sand 


3 


If God Had Known 


4 


Children's Ward 


5 


Hunger 


6 


To a Chinese Singer of 1200 b.c. 


7 


Masks 


8 


Wandering 


10 


Return from Captivity 


11 


Longing 


12 


For a Portrait 


13 


Four Things 


14 


Belief , 


15 


The Lady Abbess 


16 


A Sky-Scraper 


17 


The Holiday 


18 


A Fable 


20 


A Pattern 


21 


Troy, 19 15 


23 


A Meeting 


24 


For Trees 


25 


Minor Poet 


26 


For a Child 


27 


The Lost Pleiad 


28 



IX 



CONTENTS 




To a Grasshopper 


29 


Futility 


30 


Fulfillment 


31 


Death-Mask of an Unknown Soldier 


32 


All Souls' Night, 1917 


33 


Havoc 


34 


Khaki 


35 


Mammon Redeemed 


36 


The Goblin at Rheims 


38 


Unhealed 


39 


Purchase 


40 


Flanders Hill 


4i 


The Sons of Icarus 


42 


The Brigand 


45 


Eleanor at Three 


46 


Window-Candle 


47 


Treasure 


48 


Folk-Dance Class 


49 


Perfection • 


52 


Bagdad 


53 


Breaking the Moulds 


54 


Silhouette 


56 


Munitions 


57 


A Girl in the Crowd 


58 


To Peter Pan 


59 


Foreign News 


61 


On the Town 


63 


A Murder 


64 


Death Will Not Dare 


65 



CONTENTS 

A Parting 66 
For an Old Lady to Whom Sonnets had 

been Written 67 

Inheritance 68 

Pierrot 69 

Gifts 7° 

The Wakeful Dark 71 

Helen on the Battlement 72 

The Defeated 73 

Blown Leaves 74 

Street of Good Fortune — Pompeii 75 

"Her Name They Could not Ask" 76 
For the Unknown Author of Humpty- 

DUMPTY 78 

Spring's Wares 79 

A Child 80 

"Salome" of Henri Regnault 81 

Foreboding 83 

The Potter's Park 84 

Dowager 86 

The Masseuse 87 

Compulsion 88 

Degenerate 89 

Snuff-Boxes 90 

News woman 91 



XI 



CLOUDS 
AND COBBLESTONES 



FAITH 



If on this night of still, white cold, 
I can remember May, 
New green of tree and underbrush, 
A hillside orchard's mounting flush, 
The scent of earth and noon's blue hush, 
A robin's jaunty way; 

If on this night of bitter frost, 
I know such things can be, 
That lovely May is true — ah, well, 
I shall believe the tales men tell, 
Wonders of bliss and asphodel, 
And immortality. 



REMEMBRANCE 

Wounded, the steel-ribbed bird dipped to the. 

sea, 
Its vast wings twisted, struggling with the air 
That would not bear it up, and heavily 
Struck the still water, sleeping idly where 
The gold-arched noon had lulled it into dream. 
So, there was foaming tumult and the fret 
Of waves on heated steel, then silver steam 
That hung, like fallen cloud, where they had 

met. 
And that small, striving thing that fought 

away, 
Free of the wreckage, did he, dying, hear 
The waters murmur of another day, 
A noon, now long ago, yet strangely near; 
The waters telling drowsily of one 
Who with his wings of wax dared seek the sun? 



SAND 

The sand, which will not hold the print of my 

foot, 
Remembers, none the less, 
Chaos, * 

The birth of stars, 

And the sunken lines of sea-devoured continents. 
It is the gray hair of earth, 
Bleached and wave-beaten, 
That has known the passionate rage of waters, 
White heat of sun, 
And the slow passing of a thousand thousand 

years. 



IF GOD HAD KNOWN 

If God had known, 

When in the seething murk 

He bound the waters wild, 

And hung the skies before Him for a veil, 

Two souls should yearn and catch a glimpse 

and fail, 
Strive in the gray, till passion had grown stale; 
Oh, would He then have smiled 
Upon His work? 

If God had known, 

Before His dream gave birth, 

To moon and star, flame-swayed, 

Howthis frail lad, chained far from cloud and sky, 

Should, for a spoken word, in darkness die, 

A lad of wind and light, with laughing eye; 

Oh, would God then have made 

The fruitful earth? 

If He had known, 

In the long starless night, 

Before the first dawn shed 

Its gleam on cloud and wave in chaos rolled, 

That one — a child — an instant's winged gold, 

Should for her body's hunger thus be sold; 

Oh, would God then have said, 

" Let there be light " ? 

4 



CHILDREN'S WARD 

She had been sent for — visiting hours were 

past — 
The Lithuanian woman with the blue, 
Deep-shadowed eyes. The child's bed was the 

last, 
And as she crossed the room, she knew — she 

knew. 
White-faced she stood, the broad young shoul- 
ders drooped 
Beneath the hooded gown that visitors wear; 
The nurse had left her; suddenly she stooped, 
The hood slipped back and showed her braided 

hair. 
There was no cry! The Russians weep and 

pray, 
Italians beat their breasts. This woman turned, 
Asked for his clothes, tearless and calm and 

gray; 
The doctor told her they had all been burned. 
So she was gone — only her great eyes said, 
What thing is lost when a small child is dead! 



HUNGER 

I have heard that the tides yearn for the moon, 

And the hearts of men for the Spring, 

That the mountains reach eternally to the stars, 

And the winds, hungering, cry in waste places ; 

I have heard of a youth, long ago, 

Who died for a dream; 

But is it not odd that I should see 

In one face, 

The angular, gray face 

Of a worked-out, dull, old woman, 

Staring into a shop-window, 

All of these things? 



TO A CHINESE SINGER OF 1200 B.C. 

Three thousand years ! And still your song 

Beats in each word I write. 

The empty dusk, these yearning hands, 

Stars, and the wind in foreign lands, 

A fluttering step on opal sands, 

Deep eyes that hold the night; 

All yours ! Noon adds no dream to dawn, . 

Nor soothes the age-old ache; 

And yet I hope that first spring day, 

Three thousand weary years away, 

My sister need not know, nor say, 

That hearts will break. 



MASKS 

A pleasant scent is on the steamy air 
Of oils and herbs and soap. Women half sleep 
Before the lighted mirrors while their hair 
Is brushed, or while deft fingers ply and creep 
Over face-muscles or a sagging throat, 
That shows a little yellowish when bare. — 
The room is still, a sunny blind is drawn, 
A chair shifts, or one voice remote 
Drones gossip through a smothered yawn; 
A young girl smiles, tilts up a lovely head 
In a rare way, that makes the attendant note 
How she would lie in bed. 

Matrons are here, erect, well-cared-for, dressed 
To flash, for all who look, the best 
That may be had in living — 
Furs, motors, servants, warmth and ease, 
All taking, little giving; 
Women cast in a mould half perfume, paste, 
Passionate, idle, kind, in varying degrees, 
Their souls in stays, upright and firmly laced. 
And there are old-maids, frail and over-bred, 
With long-boned hands that twist a silver chain, 
While puffy blondes decide to have, "Instead 
Of gold this time, a bit of henna stain." 
And brave old ladies who have lost the fight, 
Yet quite ignore the point, 

8 



MASKS 

Rustle and preen themselves, though dim of 

sight, 
And very stiff of joint. 

So they come in, gracious, aloof, serene, 

And sit before the glass in a bright stall, 

And face themselves, as if they had not seen, 

As if it mattered not at all 

How in the glass, 

A certain thing, avoided and put by, 

Comes more and more to pass. 

They sit and turn their heads and vaguely try, 

With an old gesture, an unyielding trace 

Of pride — to cut, ignore, deny 

The gently crumbling face, 

Like a worn mask — that gently drowses here 

Above a fear — a great crude fear, 

A half seen thing, 

Such as rude peasants know, who front the 

black, 
Strange night, with club and sling, 
Hearing draw near, by leaves and twigs that 

crack, 
Some prowling thing! 



9 



WANDERING 



Vague winds of sorrow blow 
Across the night's wide lake; 
There is a road I know, 
But may not take. 

There is a house of vines, 
Where friendly shadows lie; 
The window-candle shines, 
But I pass by. 

Afar my pilgrim load 
I bear — yet evermore 
My feet are on that road, 
My hand is at the door. 



10 



RETURN FROM CAPTIVITY 

After the longest exile they return, 

Men who have hung their harps on willow-trees 

Of many lands, and wept in dark sojourn 

Beside all waters flowing to all seas; 

Their feet are crowding down the sacred road, 

Prophets in rags, starved seers, and minstrels 

dumb, 
Marked by their toil, scarred by the thong and 

load, 
They lift their eyes unto the hills and come ! 

The Joppa Gate swings wide, they shall go in, 
Before their sight the Temple walls shall rise, 
Nor hammer stroke be heard for the glad din 
Of hearts and praises lifting to the skies. 
How old a dream strikes root upon this day 
They only know who face the Arc to pray ! 



II 



LONGING 

Out of the night I hear a voice, 

Out of the sea a cry, 

The swift, white arms of the reaching waves 

Toss, as we pass them by, 

The foam hands grasp in the emptiness, 

And sink in the black, to die ! 

I lean to the night, I lean to the sea, 

To the round on round of blue, 

Where the barren stretch of the moon-laced 

waves 
Divides the world in two. 
There is no comfort in the dark, 
I may not come to you. 



12 



FOR A PORTRAIT 

I have a fancy- 
That my eyes, 

And the eyes of a million lovers like me, 
Have given to this portrait, 
Painted so long ago, 

Something of the flame and renewed passion 
That burn upon it. 
How else should it live so brightly, 
How should it hold fresh colors, 
Motion, transient mood and shadow, 
If our eyes, 

Uniting with its beauty, 
Did not create 
The mystic warmth and life, 
Which are its immoitality? 



13 



FOUR THINGS 

Four things I cannot remember 

In the fullness of their grace, 

Wind of the Spring, curve of the sea, 

The moon's pale touch on a white birch-tree, 

And your kiss upon my face. 

For though I cherish and hold them, 
The heavy winter through, 
Spring is more gay, the sea-foam-wrought, 
And the birch, are lovelier than I thought; 
And a kiss is always new. 



H 



BELIEF 



In six gold weeks of summer 

The striped bee, 

Still eager for more roses, 

And sunny paths of clover sweetness, 

Dies, 

Believing that flowers are eternal. 



IS 



THE LADY ABBESS 
(for a. b. m'g.) 

A lady tall and frail and rare, 
She comes wind-blown along the street; 
From places far and otherwhere, 
She comes on swift and gentle feet, 
And though she wears no snowy hood, 
Nor trailing robe — I know she should. 

For she has walked down shadowed halls, 
Past pointed windows — known soft bells, 
Dwelt in great peace behind white walls, 
With sorrow that she never tells, 
And made those glad who crossed her way, 
Pale fluttering nuns, in white and gray. 



16 



A SKY-SCRAPER 

We have grown very sapient with the years, 
And many things beyond our fathers' dream 
Have done — made manifold our eyes and ears, 
Increased our hands with swollen strength of 

steam; 
And we have trained the rivers to slow toil, 
Driven with whips the red-maned fires of day, 
To rear a dwelling-place upon fair soil, 
Which may well hold Eternity at bay ! 

And yet, as to the clouds we urge the frame 
Of climbing steel, the tongues of foreign men, 
Their accents harshly mingling, still proclaim 
The warning of mad Babel. Now as then 
God holds us off. With all our wisdom high, 
We have not built the tower to pierce the sky ! 



17 



THE HOLIDAY 

My soul went forth in green and gold, 

It was a holiday; 

In light and blossoms was she crowned, 

The month was May, 

My soul was blithe, I heard her sing, 

As she went down the way: 

"Let us be glad because the earth 

Is new with love and song, 

Let us be glad that we are fair, 

And that the day is long, 

Oh, let us dance, since right and love 

Have triumphed over wrong !" 

It was the twilight when my soul 

Came silent, home to me, 

Her frock was rent from hem to ruff, 

There was no light to see, 

Below the tattered crown her eyes 

Wept bitterly. 

"Why come you weeping from the feast?" 
Unto my soul I said; 

"Bring me," quoth she, "my cloak of gray, 
The gray hood for my head, 
Bring me my robe of work and tears, 
The holiday is dead. 
. 18 



THE HOLIDAY 

"For some will dance and others sing, 

Nor see the sun drop low, 

They do not hear above their joy 

The voice that bids me go; 

The cloak of gray was made for me, 

But why I do not know." 



19 



A FABLE 



In the beginning 

There were no birds, 

According to a fable 

Of most doubtful origin. 

Even after the seventh day 

There were no birds 

To sing ! 

Until, long after, 

The Lord, having rested well, 

Was in mood to visit His work, 

To measure what He had done ! 

Then, looking down, 

And seeing beauty was as it is, 

The Lord said, "Oh," 

Which took red wings and flew, 

And the Lord said, "Ah," 

Which was a bluebird, 

And the Lord drew in His breath, 

Whereat the air was thick with song. 

"All birds," said the fable, 

"Are God's exclamation 

At the beauty of the earth." 



20 



A PATTERN 

There is a vine that faintly crawls 

Upon my faintly patterned walls, 

A vine with leaves that have not grown 

In any land that I have known, 

A wind-caught vine that dimly brands 

My memory — with its leaves like hands. 

For sometimes when a pale light shines 
And weaves as water through the vines, 
Their weary leaves — I think I see 
Things that are part, yet out of me, 
And part of things I cannot say, 
As broken dreams that haunt the day. 

I know this shadow mesh has moved 
Across some temple step, deep-grooved, 
Where I, for a sharp moment, heard 
Bells and dim prayers . . . The shadows stirred; 
Or were they hands that beckoned far, 
Beyond the rim of what dead star? 

And when the moon slips whitely in 

Along the wall, I hear a din 

Of feet and horses, trumpet blare, 

And see, perhaps, a lady fair 

Ride past, her frail hands resting cold 

On silk embossed with vines of gold. 

21 



POEMS 

And once, I heard a feeble cry, 
An infant's wail, half sob, half sigh, 
So far away — and yet I knew 
A shoulder clothed in patterned blue, 
And weary hands that quite beguiled 
And comforted — what woeful child? 

There is a vine that faintly crawls 

Upon my faintly papered walls, 

A vine with leaves that have not grown 

In any land that I have known, 

A wind-caught vine that dimly brands 

My memory — with its leaves like hands. 



22 



TROY, 1915 

« 

Past the gray shore, faint in the mist as when 
The shadow ships lay high in drifted sand, 
Swing the dim dreadnoughts, bearing hosts of 

men, 
To hurl new ruin and blight upon this land 
Of ancient wars, where death still lies in wait, 
And restless winds bring echoed cries and calls, 
Where on the vacant plain, those who watch 

late, 
Hear the dull boom of falling towers and walls. 
What fires, dust-smouldering, flare? What 

quarrel now, 
For beauty wronged, stirs passionate strength 

to smite? 
What lover with fair talk and broken vow 
Steals from his host's door laughing in the 

night? 
Helen, sleep well! No woman's yearning lips, 
Nor eyes, love-weary, launch these deadly 

ships ! 



23 



A MEETING 

Thank you, maiden with the feather, 

With the green and sparkling feather, 

In your hat! 

Thanks, that, spite of dreary weather, 

People crowded close together, 

As I sat 

Taking notes, my eyes could see, 

Like the fresh leaves of a tree 

In the Spring, 

All the feather's merry glee, 

Green as waves are said to be, 

Joyous thing ! 

Thank you, maiden with the feather, 

With the out-of-doors, new feather, 

Mocking, bright! 

Though the musty chair of leather, 

And my notes, a weary tether, 

Held me tight ; 

Still your feather, jaunty, gay, 

Whispered, "Sometime, on a day, 

Not too far, 

Spring, all spent with love and play, 

Shall come shining down the way. 

Like a star." 



24 



FOR TREES 



The old tree lives so long, 

Because each year, 

April, 

For a short singing space, 

Brings tiny leaves. 

Would that I might 

As the ancient tree in Spring, 

Fold a green scarf about me, 

And be young. 

If I could sleep so long 

Under the snow, 

As the trees of the orchard, 

So might the sun 

Make me to bear white blossoms 

For a thousand years. 



25 



MINOR POET 

It is not that you had only one 

Very good thought, 

Great men survive, as a rule, 

By not more than five — sometimes seven. 

But they have a way of riding at beauty 

With a lifted spear, 

And at truth with a sword. 

In a cloud of flame and battle they ride — 

And their hands are torn. 

And you — you said a great many things, 
With one good one. 

But there are no high, invisible banners 
Waving about your words ; 
There is no mist in your throat, 
And the stars do not choke you 1 



26 



FOR A CHILD 

I do not know what day I came away 

From that quaint shining country where you 

find 
Fair things so near; trees that bend down to 

play, 
White mushroom tables where the elves have 

dined 
Beside the door, while you were fast asleep; 
And everywhere strange moving things to touch, 
A shadow leaf to hold, but not to keep, 
And little furry animals to clutch. 

Yet sometimes, when I listen to you tell 
Of this gay land ; the moon that follows you 
Into the house, the goblin with his bell, 
All silvery at night; to-morrow, what you'll do; 
I marvel, since the light may fall so gray; 
I did not know — that day I came away. 



27 



THE LOST PLEIAD 

(CHICAGO ART MUSEUM ) 

Well have they placed you here, poor fright- 
ened maid, 
Fleeing the very shadows and the wind, 
Strayed — ah, so many centuries ago, 
From your blithe sisters in Thessalian woods. 
It comforts not — the statue-peopled room, 
The solemn visitors with catalogues, 
Unfiltered sunlight on you where you stand! 
Still are you lost, and now more lost than when, 
Scanning dim forest aisles, and untried paths, 
With hand to brow and tears and smothered 

calls, 
You fled and knew not where. 
Are not we, with our hats, our gloves and shoes, 
Dark leather bags, umbrellas and lorgnettes,. 
More to be feared than satyrs at their play, 
Or teasing faun's quaint mockery of despair? 



28 



TO A GRASSHOPPER 
(for m. s. a.) 

O mad musician, singing in the grass, 
Trusting green ways and clear September sky, 
How should you think that crimson leaves will 

pass, 
The towering golden-rod bend down to die; 
Or that the flame-cupped poppy, blooming here, 
Shall lend its petals to you for a bier? 

With warmth you come, and with the warmth 

will go, 
Troubadour, piping to the summer sun, 
Knight of the earth, so stanch you do not know 
Your shining armor is of gossamer spun; 
So brave with living that you will not heed 
The wind, that gossips snowfall with a reed. 

And so, sing on, nor fear the winter's breath, 
You, who have never known the touch of frost; 
Aye, serenade the very halls of death, 
And cease with summer — wondering and lost 
In freezing blasts, you did not dream might fall 
Upon a world where light and song were all ! 



29 



FUTILITY 

Across the iron wheel 

Of the powerful engine 

A tiny spider has spun in the night 

His fragile web. 

Now, at magnificent ease, 

He sits in the center 

Awaiting his prey. 

It does not occur to him 

That the eight-forty-five will start on time, 

In spite of his preparation for quarry, 

And a long day 

Of hunting. 



30 



FULFILLMENT 

Some dusk the door I strive against shall give, 
And I shall see the garden veiled in gray, 
Friendly as that faint dream I made to live, 
And fought for, with bare hands, the long white 
day. 

I shall go in to flowers gently blown, 
White-blossomed trees, and paths of healing 

sands, 
I shall go in, and I shall take my own — 
A stranger with unsightly bleeding hands. 



31 



DEATH-MASK OF AN UNKNOWN 
SOLDIER 

Death is dark sleep and death is very still, 
Yet in this sleeping face, shadowed, too lean, 
There lives a little smile aloof and chill, 
A little mocking smile that lurks between 
The even lips firm-sealed, final as stone, 
And the nostril's subtle lift; the eyes are stern, 
And in their hollows dark all pain is shown; 
Yet the face smiles in gentle unconcern. 

Something he knew too surely as he came 
To the narrow door, with youth upon his head, 
Something he saw, as by a livid flame, 
Paltry, amusing, commonplace instead 
Of what he'd thought; and so he closed his eyes. 
The dead should not be cynical and wise. 



32 



ALL SOULS' NIGHT, 1917 

You heap the logs and try to fill 
The little room with words and cheer, 
But silent feet are on the hill, 
Across the window veiled eyes peer. 

The hosts of lovers, young in death, 
Go seeking down the world to-night, 
Remembering faces, warmth and breath - 
And they shall seek till it is light. 

Then let the white-flaked logs burn low, 
Lest those who drift before the storm 
See gladness on our hearth and know 
There is no flame can make them warm. 



33 



HAVOC 

There has been ruin of old and swift decay, 
The sand has taken cities in the night, 
And with its yellow silence smiled away 
House-top and wall and turret gay with light; 
And the gray sea has spun a misty shroud 
For ships adventuring to their doom unseen, 
While the high wrath of some black-shouldered 

cloud 
Has wasted loveliness. These things have been! 
But I have known what all the years have 

lost, 
In one new ruin slow crumbling to its bed — 
A forest of tall trees stark after frost, 
The gaunt boughs dark above their scattered 

dead; 
Here is an end — a waste where winds shall 

blow 
As through a city, dust how long ago! 



34 



KHAKI 



Under the slow-turning suns, 

Age after age, 

A bending animal, 

A stooped thing, 

Whose seed was yet to be man — 

Has fought through many deaths 

To one end — 

Uprightness and aloofness 

From mud. 

But to-day I saw a column of men 

Marching on a field, 

Striving again to be one 

With mud. 



35 



MAMMON REDEEMED 

We, Mammon, have made you free, 

Westerners, sons of the high noon, 

Body and spirit glad! 

Out of the evil, like yourself, that is in us, 

Out of the good, like daylight in our blood, 

We have gone down to your habitation ! 

The caverns of gluttony, wilderness of lust, 

Litter of broken dreams and gold-clogged hopes, 

Fearless we passed and drew you forth; 

You of the shrunken body, and sun-blind eyes, 

God of the hollowed hands, 

Huge, web-fingered, older than Cain, 

Hands that have held the earth, 

As a thin-shelled, misformed egg, 

And hatched it to their shape. 

You do we place above us in the square, 

And worship with bold eyes ; 

For we are weary of praying in the dark, 

Denying whom we love, 

Neglecting our benefactor. 

Do we not know with whom we walk and live? 

O Builder, Wrecker of the blind, brute ways, 

Your strength is hunger and your grip is need. 

You may we not put off! 

Ever the body chain must bind us to you; 

How far we go, we may not lose its straining; 

The very stars we win are bought in bondage, 

36 



MAMMON REDEEMED 

And not one deed but bears the shackle's scar 

Across its root. 

All that is good, swift-growing, wide and free 

Beneath the hands of men, 

Lives of your nourishment, 

And who would work his will in love and dream 

Must bear your gifts. 

Wherefore, Mammon, the word ! 

After the age-old night, the fearful hiding, 

You stand beneath the day, 

Reclaimed of men. 

And men shall give to you, 

By all the healing wonder of the sun, 

A soul ! 



37 



THE GOBLIN AT RHEIMS 

From his high arch, nestled in stony nook, 
He used to leer across the twilight space 
Of the great aisle ■ — the goblin with the book, 
Bent in huge hands. Half lost in ivoried lace 
Of shadow carving, scrolls and thick-twined 

gorse, 
His savage face was sly with some dark jest; 
I thought it strange he lived so cruel, coarse, 
Above five centuries' drifted prayer and rest. 

To-day I knew him by his evil sneer, 
In shattered rose-glass, fretwork, fallen towers; 
And wondered if he told his maker's fear 
Of this far shame. But no — who dreamed 

these flowers, 
Modeled of light, this laughing cherub's wing, 
How should he think men's hands might do 

this thing? 



38 



UNHEALED 



In the winter when the snow 
Cried beneath the laden dray, 
Looking on my grief I said, 
"Glad am I the winter day, 
Not the sparkling month of May, 
Sees my love thus broken, dead." 

But alas, now May has come, 
Stirred the earth to song and light, 
Filled the air with whispering, 
Cries my heart in fettered might, 
"Love that dies in tears and night 
Dies anew each day of Spring." 



39 



PURCHASE 1 

They shall come in and chat, their purses hid, 
The men who hold rare things and gently smile; 
They shall disturb frail musty sheets, and bid 
A fortune for this letter or gray file 
Of parchment, nobly written by the hand 
That loved to gleam in gems and curious rings, 
Point out a man for death; give castles, land, 
Or rest on ermined shoulders of tall kings. 
And through the room, as from an unsealed 

urn, 
Shadows will drift, faint shapes of Florence, 

dead, 
Born of these records men shall lift and turn, 
Knowing as he who gave the artists bread 
For white madonnas, saints, God's cloudy 

throne, 
A man may buy what he can never own ! 

1 Certain letters wriiten by Lorenzo de' Medici are sold 
at auction. 



4 



FLANDERS HILL 

A forest of sharp skeletons flame-seared, 
They stand above the hill, the ancient trees, 
A waste of broken trunks the shells have cleared 
Of swaying branch and leaf and woodland ease. 

So still they are, the Spring shall turn aside, 
Summer shall never touch their blackened sleep, 
They know — they know earth's laughing heart 

has died, 
The ancient trees, whose roots have pierced so 

deep. 



41 



THE SONS OF ICARUS 

Up through the clouds, and higher, higher still, 
Flew Icarus the free, on untried wings, 
Mad with the song-filled spaces of the blue, 
Encircling dome — outsoaring wantonly 
The cloud-sailed galleons and the wind-built 

walls 
Of dim, mist citadels that plunged and swayed, 
Or, crumbling, died in rainbow agonies. 

Below, an opal, rimmed in liquid gold, 

The earth, his prison lay, a thing for scorn, 

Chained by the flashing tides. 

White Icarus 

Breasting the swirling waves of jeweled snow, 
Flew on — the mighty winds against his face, 
The songs of unseen stars within his ears, 
And gilded arches of the upper sky 
Before his ardent gaze; flew till he lost 
Remembrance of the earth he once had loved, 
The blossomed Spring and Autumn's golden 

wine, 
The hearth-stone of his mother and the ways 
Of men, who live with feet upon the ground; 
Forgot — triumph of the winged air, — 
The Cretan woe, the scar beneath his wings; 
And soaring, singing, mounting ever, felt 

42 



THE SONS OF ICARUS 

The motion steal his body's bone and weight, 
Until at last, he knew a surging warmth, 
And lifting dauntless eyes, beheld unveiled, 
Full-splendored on his throne of light — the 
God. 

A moment paused the wings of Icarus, 
A moment swayed he, mindful of a dream, 
A voice once heard, an echo of the earth; 
Then with a madder song more swiftly rose, 
Until the white glow smote his very heart, 
Broke wide the mortal prison where it beat, 
And set it free at last, a thing of light, 
To live forever, singing in the blue, 
Nor heeding that a body's sky-wrecked ruin 
Plunged to a violet sea. 

And heedless are the after-men who hear, 
On still, blue noons, or in the gold of dawn, 
The wonder of the sun-freed heart that sings, 
Waking a strange sky-yearning in their breasts, 
The lift of wings, the glory of far clouds, 
Calling aloft the children of the air. 

Eager they listen, then with crafty tools 
They make the wings, brave, man-made wings 

as his, 
That tremble to the hands, strain to the winds, 
And strongly bear through pathless ways untried 
The bird-souled sons of Icarus the Mad. 

43 



POEMS 

men of earth, who dare the sun's fierce 

strength, 
Inheritors of unfamiliar space, 
Flying too near the breaking point of law, 
The rift where worlds divide — yours still the 

wings ! 
Not broken as they fall, a tattered shroud, 
But banners of the air, flags of the vast 
Uncharted, scarred by swords of flame and 

wind, 
That play in vacancy — the flashing seal, 
Borne to the conquered kingdom's utmost edge, 
Set in the windy gateway of the sky, 
Marking possession to eternity, 
And flung to earth, the star-dust in their folds, 
A pledge that men shall yet be borne with 

wings ! 



44 



THE BRIGAND 

Those days I walked with pirate and glad 

thieves 
Are somehow lost; there is no ogre now, 
No crook-backed witch who croons the while 

she weaves, 
Nor Spanish brigand with his knitted brow; 
That merry devil's brood who seized their gold, 
Hid treasure, plundered, strung their victims 

high, 
Are shadows on a page — and I am old, 
My ship is beached, its yellow bottom dry. 

And yet there is one villain black and grim, 
One bandit in the flesh who lays his snare 
Before my eyes, and at his cruel whim 
Leaps on his prey and kills — with what an 

air! 
The spider, hairy-legged, still plies his trade, 
Red-sashed he comes, between his teeth the 

blade! 



45 



ELEANOR AT THREE 

I saw the sunlight on a lake, 
I heard a bird sing in his tree, 
A rose I had no heart to break, 
An April breeze were kind to me; 
And when to them I held arms wide, 
I found you, Eleanor, inside. 

Held you, all dancing light and gold, 
Dim fragrance, music — and I said, 
"Here is a sunbeam I may hold 
For all my fingers are of lead. 
Here is the Spring dawn come to stay, 
A bird that will not fly away." 

But no — wind-fingers caught your dress; 
The leaves called and you had to go, 
With all the treasured loveliness 
Of things that men forget to know, 
In earth's worn path, so glad, so new, 
You thought that I might follow you! 



4 6 



WINDOW-CANDLE 

I shall remember many nights, 

Of hill and wind and sky; 

I shall remember how we stood 

In a starry-hearted solitude, 

Or crossed the untamed, moon-wise wood, 

Putting thorn-fingers by; 

And other nights of near, sweet ways 
Shall stay with me — but last 
This one — we came, day-worn and slow, 
Into the hedge-rimmed path we know, 
And saw the window-candle glow, 
Will-o'-the-wisp chained fast. 



47 



TREASURE 

The little pilfering hands of hours and days 
Bury much loveliness and treasured gold, 
Savor and essence, cloud and warm scent and 

haze, 
Small things accustomed, all too frail to hold. 
But I would have remembrance full and keen, 
Nor yield one leaf, or cloud, or shadow's blue, 
One little thrusting wind, one hill's tall green, 
The outer way of wonder we passed through. 
The fear grows with me that I shall forget, 
Never your love, but half-seen things of grace, 
Beauty we took and marveled at and set 
Aside, half blindly, marking not its place; 
This wealth put by, this gold too faint and rare, 
I cannot count — and yet, I cannot spare. 



48 



FOLK-DANCE CLASS 
(for c. f.) 

"For to-day is the first of May." 
(What matter? We work indoors.) 
"And the miller grinds his flour to-day." 
(Ours comes in a sack from the stores.) 
"Green-gravel ! Green-gravel I How green the 

grass grows!" 
(That's what they say, but nobody knows.) 

The dancers in the shallow hall 

Have mad, gay-colored shadows at their backs, 

The heavy dancers flat of chest and small, 

Who have not seen the corn, nor cut the flax; 

Yet dimly know, 

Under the music's hurrying lash, 

Who are these shadows tossing wanton heads, 

Letting their ribbons blow, 

Blue, green, and flaming reds, 

Making their cymbals clash. 

The heavy dancers know, as if a sign 

Had passed — a word had made them kin, 

To these who haunt the music with their fine 

Free bodies, beckoning brown and lean, 

Beyond the walls — until, with shout and din, 

The dancers wake, thrust through the screen 

That holds them in, 



49 



POEMS 

And lift their heads, and stamp their feet and 

run, 
As through a village gate on to a green, 
A village green that leads into the sun. 

"Mother, may I go out to swim?" 

(You may stitch on black till your eyes are 

dim.) 
"And where are you going, my pretty maid?" 
(To work in the factory, sir, she said.) 
"Oh, London Bridge is falling down." 
(But not the smoke-stacks in our town.) 

The music tears their bodies with its hands, 
Stirs them as sight of fire on a wide plain 
At night; lulls them with crooning; brands 
Their sense with heat of sun on fields of grain. 
The mounting rhythm tugs at them and beats 
Their blood, as winds beat water to a foam, 
Whirls them through little towns with crooked 

streets, 
And drives them madly home ! 
All in an instant, while an old tune sings, 
These children, starved of day and song and 

mirth, 
Touch with their naked feet the naked earth 
That wakens in them, rings 
Through them into a cry that they have known, 
But have forgot — 

50 



FOLK-DANCE CLASS 

The cry of earth unto her alien own, 

Who have earth's sap for blood and ore for 

bone, 
And are made strong, 
With feet upon the soil like planted stone, 
And red lips shaped to song. 

"For to-day is the first of May." 
(We shall see the sunlight burn.) 
"And the miller grinds his flour to-day." 
(We shall watch the mill-wheel turn.) 
"Green-gravel ! Green-gravel ! How green the 

grass grows!" 
(We shall tread it down with our naked toes.) 



51 



PERFECTION 

Very likely the savage 

Who moulded, a thousand years ago, 

The terra-cotta jar, 

Irregular, lovely, with thumb-marks burned on 

its sides, 
And finely penciled, uneven lines at the neck, 
Dreamed of a contour, 
Round, without blemish, smooth, 
As this one, which I have bought 
At the ten-cent store. 



52 



BAGDAD 

The tavern at the cross-roads of the world 
Sleeps in the sun, held by an ancient dream; 
Its door of gold, gem-crusted and impearled, 
Still welcomes to dim halls the creeping stream 
Of wanderers, beggars, princes in disguise, 
Lean, sun-bronzed men of steppe and desert 

seas, 
Who rest at last beneath the low, starred skies, 
Telling the journey in the tavern's ease. 
And what mad storms this later day may 

send, 
What winds of death may rise and smite and 

weep, 
Shall have their way and pass — such is the end 
Of storms and even death — nor touch this 

sleep. 
For lo! The tavern, with the door of gold, 
Dreams and knows not the thousand tales are 

told! 



53 



BREAKING THE MOULDS 

We are breaking up the moulds 

With a rattle and a clatter, 

Wielding hammers at strongholds, 

Laughing as the fragments scatter, 

And our hands, once brave for making, 

Tear and hurl and crush and batter, 

With a frenzy in the breaking, 

And a passion that shall shatter 

All the moulds, 

The ancient moulds, 

In this white hour of our waking. 

So we swing the hammers high, 
Braces yield and walls grow slack, 
Spires topple from the sky, 
Roof-trees massive, chimneys black, 
Mosque and temple, shop and jail, 
Make a litter like the sack 
Of a town in some old tale, 
When the moulds began to crack, 
All the moulds, 
The ancient moulds, 
Weighed and wanting in the scale. 

But a new world shall be won, 
That no hand shall smite or tear — 
So we cry, who stumble, run, 

54 



BREAKING THE MOULDS 

Hammers lifted, while we spare 

One small mould — two feet, two hands, 

And a round head hot with hair ! 

This the mould that scars and brands 

With its flaw, what worlds we dare ! 

This the mould, 

The ancient mould, 

That yields and bends and cracks — but stands ! 

We are breaking up the moulds 

With a rattle and a clatter, 

Wielding hammers at strongholds, 

Laughing as the fragments scatter, 

Singing as our chisels gnaw, 

Biting through the stones we shatter, 

Breaking without rule or law — 

Moulds must go — it does not matter — 

All the moulds, 

The ancient moulds, 

Shaped of one mould with a flaw! 



55 



SILHOUETTE 

It quivered from the ground 

And felt the air uphold its struggling wings, 

The mounting aeroplane ! 

In the dim theater we watched its course 

Upon the screen, 

And saw it rise, until the villages 

Were as toy houses ranged along a floor. 

Till rivers and the roads seemed swirls of tape, 

And only clouds were man-sized things and 

true! 
So, up and up ■ — across wide plains of sky 
The sharp wings fared; 
And we sat wondering, feet upon the earth, 
But spirits lifted, racing with keen winds 
That fly between the stars. 
And then — he stood — 
The bulky man in front, 
Drew on his coat, humped in thick folds, 
His gloves, 

Rounded his back and stooped to find his hat, 
Stood square, 

And blotted out the fluttering thing that held, 
Singing within its engine's crowded space, 
The spirit of a million million birds. 



56 



MUNITIONS 

He wrapped the blunt-nosed thing and took 
Its brother from the tray, 
And that he wrapped — then more and more, 
All shining, blunt-nosed, by the score, 
And wrapped them so all day. 

His neighbor laid them in a box, 
Another fixed the lid; 
The work was swift, and many hands, 
Of sundry men of sundry lands, 
Did it, as they were bid. 

And what they knew of blunt-nosed things, 
No word, nor shrewd glance said; 
The work was theirs — this much was good, 
For men must live and have their food, 
Though other men lie dead ! 



57 



A GIRL IN THE CROWD 

I saw her pass and said, "The flame of her 
Will not outlive my glance." So fragile, proud, 
And spendthrift young, she burned along the 

crowd, 
A darting thing of rose and gold and myrrh, 
Riding the day's glad wonder with a spur. 
The motion of her was a running cloud, 
Her promise all new leaves and fields fresh- 
ploughed. 
As if a wild-plum tree, some April noon, 
Should wake and fling its bounty to the air, 
Beside an age-wise ruin with creepers grown, 
Trace on that mould its light and shadow rune, 
So young against the wall — and yet aware 
How, in one hour, it had outlived the stone. 



58 



TO PETER PAN 

Lend me your pipes, glad Peter Pan, 

Lend me your pipes to-day; 

The windows of my heart are dark, 

The children are away; 

Unless I dance, I know I'll weep; 

Lend me your pipes to play 1 

Dear Peter Pan, I too would be 
A vagabond, to sing, 
And yet, before I thought, the world 
Had trapped me by my wing. 
Now I am wise enough to know 
It is not always Spring. 

Give me your pipes, O Peter Pan; 

The wind is bitter cold; 

A trouble that you sang to sleep 

Has wakened up to scold; 

I almost fear — but whisper it — 

Some day I shall grow old. 

And that I cannot think to do 
When all the world is fair, 
And folk are going up and down 
With ribbons in their hair, 
And smiles and eyes are beckoning 
Like May flowers in the air ! 
59 



TO PETER PAN 

Lend me, glad Peter Pan, your pipes, 

And call your trusty band, 

To drive away this grown-up woe; 

O, take me by the hand, 

And lead me, for I cannot see, 

To Never Never Landl 



60 



FOREIGN NEWS 

From half across the world 

These yellowish, strangely printed papers come, 

Pages too tightly furled, 

With tales I know of slaughter and pogrom — 

I slip into my chair, tilt higher 

A low light at my elbow. But the tea 

Is still too hot to drink, and so I skim 

Headings that wail of exile, murder, fire, 

Of laden backs slow passing to the sea, 

Bent figures hurt in fiber, mind, and limb. 

I think I do not see what things I read, 

Or else I could not read and slowly sip 

Comforting tea. This hunger and this need 

Touch me with horror — and yet feebly slip 

Into a cache, 

An area off-focus, not quite true. 

I cannot think that I 

Would shake lean, starving fingers from my 

dress, 
And pass old women crouching in the street, 
Or shapeless dead — pass calmly by 
And stare quite through 

Their ancient woe and tears and blind distress, 
To come indoors to eat ! 



61 



POEMS 

And yet I do this thing, 

Suffer with those who suffer — just so much — 

And quite avoid the rude attack and clutch 

Of panic — presence of the unknown dark. 

I think I have a gift for locking in 

Unpleasant agony and facts too stark, 

With the old and shadowy sin 

Of old dead lands half shadowy and mad, 

That hardly matter now. 

And since I would prefer earth to be glad, 

I know well how 

To group disturbing tales of blood and wrong 

With Moloch, Blue-beard's wives, and such as 

these, 
To keep far from me — bread-lines three blocks 

long, 
And old men slain in cellars on their knees. 



62 



ON THE TOWN 

The tree at the door of the saloon 

Is brazen and sordid. 

It lifts to the sun worm-eaten leaves, 

Branches whose curves have grown stiff 

With evil living. 

The hunger of crowds surging past, 

Coarse laughter, cries and heavy feet, 

The lurchings of drunken men, 

Have touched and corrupted this tree, 

Withered it like a harlot, 

In old age shrill and selfish, 

Meager of shade. 

The wind in its branches, 

Impudent and too free, 

Stirs the brown leaves to ribald whisperings. 



63 



A MURDER 

There is much talk and stir 
About this puzzling case, 
A stain, a scarfs torn fur 
Found in a grimy place. 

Detectives, hats pushed back, 
Cough, turning and thrusting about, 
Like dogs off scent and slack — 
Weighing grave doubt and doubt. 

Reporters chatting stand 

On the stair, or swarm through the hall, 

One with a long gray hand 

Lifts a snap-shot from the wall. 

The snow that the shoes track in 
Turns brown on the carpeted floor, 
A high bell pierces the din, 
A heavy hand rattles the door. 

And above, on a narrow bed, 
Where the women shudder and weep, 
A girl with a fair young head 
Is sleeping an old old sleep. 



6 4 



DEATH WILL NOT DARE 

Of all the cloudy armies that have passed 
Down the gray earth, there is no soul that 

knew 
To vanquish death; but each alone, at last, 
Has felt a weariness, a wind that blew 
Heavy with sleep — and so has laid him down. 
Robert the Strong, whose spear no man could 

hurl, 
Richard and William of the Dreadful Frown, 
Have slept with glassy eyes, as might a churl. 
But I, who still am warm and breathe the 

air, 
Cannot believe this dim unlikely end. 
Those others have been trapped! Death will 

not dare 
To come to me, low-whispering, as a friend; 
This body that I am can never lie 
So heedless and so chill, as those who die. 



6S 



A PARTING 

Bright afternoon, the public square, 
We stood and thought to say good-bye; 
The crowd went past, all unaware, 
With talk and clang and newsboy cry; 
We were just any two, as they, 
In dark-stuff clothes, well-fed and gay. 

And yet, for all the sound and light, 

I knew the moment's offering. 

Words? But your lips were of the night - 

Low-flying clouds, and rain-sweet Spring, 

And through the parting's gray disguise 

I felt your kisses on my eyes. 



66 



FOR AN OLD LADY TO WHOM 
SONNETS HAD BEEN WRITTEN 

He praised in lines that everybody knew 
Her hands, her brow, her pale and lovely face; 
He dared not say (he was Victorian too) 
How he was haunted by her body's grace; 
He linked her name with magic names and old, 
Helen, Iseult, Queen Meave and Guinevere, 
He swore that years should never make her 

cold, 
Nor death appall her merry heart with fear. 
But when I see her bending on her stick, 
So careful where she steps — I know at last, 
That earth is old and April but a trick, 
That Troy is gone and Tyre and Sidon have 

passed ! 
I think I saw their high towers falling down, 
In an old lady's bleak, impatient frown. 



6 7 



INHERITANCE 



Prometheus, pitying men, 

Dared the long wrath of gods, 

Thongs and the vulture — 

To bring to earth 

The fire, 

Before which I drowse, 

In utter well-being. 



68 



PIERROT 



How could I sleep so long; 

The moon was low; 

How could I close my eyes 

On shadow, star, and skies, 

And never know 

The soft air held your song? 

How could I sleep so long, 

Pierrot? 

To-night I do not sleep: 
The moon is low; 
Beside my casement wide 

1 watch the shadows glide; 
So long ago 

You sang — alas, I weep, 
To-night I do not sleep, 
Pierrot! 



69 



GIFTS 



She tilts her face and smiles and asks 
Some quaint gift for her play, 
The friendly little girl next door, 
Who thinks I have a magic store 
Of lovely things — balloons and more - 
Wonder for every day. 

And I am just a bit amused 
At her calm, trusting air; 
I who have somehow grown to be 
Older so many years than three, 
Still asking all expectantly 
For beauty — everywhere ! 



70 



THE WAKEFUL DARK 

There is a crowd upon the air to-night; 

The leaves are out, 

Clustered and gathered to the farthest tip 

Of the dim branches' edge. 

All in a day, the wet wind called 

And they rushed forth, 

Bearing the fragrance of the trees' deep heart 

In their unfolding wings. 

The dark is thickly plumed and tufted where 

They wait, a misty, swinging crowd 

Too glad for sleep. 

Beside my window, restless too, I stand 

Athirst like leaf and garden 

For the day. 

And when the moist wind, groping for more 

sweet, 
Lilac or violet, or the new, slim buds, 
Touches my face, 
I feel the petals of my heart 
Tremble and open wide, 
As if it too 
Had bloomed upon the night. 



7i 



HELEN ON THE BATTLEMENT 

Upon the tower she stands and bends above 
The wall that rims its edge; her shoulders 

droop 
Beneath the jeweled web enfolding them, 
Her elbow meets the stone, and in the hand, 
Cup-like and ivory-fingered, rests her chin. 
The lips just meet, her eyes unshadowed, calm, 
Dwell on the sea where ride the Grecian ships, 
Dwell on the sun-bronzed sea, whose waves 

touch Greece. 
It seems she feels no bitter love, no care, 
This quiet eve; the southern wind, whose wings 
Are veiled dreams, had stolen all her thoughts; 
She might have been just any Trojan maid, 
Had she not been so fair! 



72 



THE DEFEATED 

I saw a dark procession 

Go through my dream all night; 

A line of women weeping, 

A black line swaying, creeping, 

Above a road too white. 

And after it came children, 
Small children without guile, 
Who wore no black, nor wept, 
But all in silence stept, 
And not a one could smile. 



73 



BLOWN LEAVES 

The Autumn came to-day at dawn 
With wind find flying cloud, 
And that dear need of you I hide, 
Waked to the yearning wind outside, 
Held me half-dreaming, till I cried 
Your name — your name aloud 1 

But later, when the sun was up, 

And Indian Summer's flame 

Spun earth to gold — oh, still I knew 

The seeking, lonely wind that blew 

At dawn — and whirled my heart to you, 

A leaf, that cried a name ! 



74 



STREET OF GOOD FORTUNE — 
POMPEII 

The day was gray — a film of misty rain 
Blew on a gentle wind through unroofed home, 
Temple and marble bath. The stony lane 
That once had been a street and looked toward 

Rome, 
Was ghostly-still and broken and bereft; 
The weeds had grown, a lizard crawled in 

fright 
Across a rut by some swift chariot left, 
Hastening in panic through that flame-shot 

night. 

The cool rain fell — we spoke of molten rock 

Half carelessly — of sudden death and fear, 

We who were still so blithe and quick to mock, 

Who baked our loaves, thinking to-morrow 

near; 
While down Good Fortune Street, before our 

eyes, 
A green hill hissed white spirals to the skies. 



75 



"HER NAME THEY COULD NOT ASK" 
(for j. m'g.) 

I have heard a ballad sung, 

I have listened to a tale, 

Of a lady blithe and young, 

Gay of laughter, sweet of tongue, 

Fey and flower-pale. 

None there was who knew her sire, 

None knew her land nor home; 

Down the road she ran like fire, 

The young winds tossed her laughter higher — 

Was she flame or foam? 

They knew not, the folk who fared 
To field or simple task. 
And her name — had they but dared ! 
Alas, they only smiled and stared. 
Her name they could not ask. 

For while they saw her face they knew 
Most strange and lovely things; 
A rounding coast and waters blue, 
A yellow sail the sun strikes through, 
And a scarlet bird that sings. 

Or they remembered how a Wall 
Takes shadows in the moon; 

7 6 



"HER NAME THEY COULD NOT ASK" 

They heard again the Spring rain fall, 
And once, perhaps, a far sweet call 
Down a drowsy afternoon. 

Then she was gone and had not said 
Her name to call her by. 
They followed long where she had fled, 
But those who pressed most far ahead, 
What name had they to cry? 

I have heard a ballad sung, 
Of a lady fey, 

Of a lady blithe and young, 
Gay of laughter, sweet of tongue, 
I saw her yesterday ! 



77 



FOR THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR OF 
HUMPTY-DUMPTY 

You did not think to write your name 
Across the jingle that has strayed 
Down centuries — a song, a game 
The tiny ones of earth have played. 

By some swift sign they greet and know 
Your solemn hero as a friend, 
They hang upon his tale of woe, 
And laugh — despite his tragic end. 

A hundred times each day he dies, 
Unaided by the King's good men; 
And yet he lives in wondering eyes, 
The small hands make him whole again. 



78 



SPRING'S WARES 

Comes the Spring a gypsy merchant, 
Spreading out her wares for me, 
Lace of shadow, tender shoots, 
Balm and gold and sleepy roots, 
Cloud embroidery. 

"Here's pearl-white anemone, 
Wet with snow — just out; and here 
Lilac, honeysuckle vine, 
Hiding flasks of honey- wine; 
One wild rose! Too dear? 

"Or perhaps this bit of sun, 
I give it with a butterfly, 
Would you look at blossom trees? 
Peach or plum? A gold- wing breeze! 
See him — will you buy? 

"Last, but, Lady, pray beware, 
An April dusk, all violet-sweet 
Beneath the moon. One mad thrush calls, 
Earth is so warm, so near ! Night falls, 
Lovers' lips will meet '!" 

I, the winter-hearted, search 
Spring's new basket — turn away; 
Neither under star nor flower 
Could I find the singing hour 
I would not have last May. 

79 



A CHILD 

The little maid next door is fair 
As the white, wild-plum in May, 
She runs with a leap and flying hair, 
But tears are in her play. 

She holds my hand when we go to walk, 
Or ride in the crowded car, 
Yet her round eyes shine through her baby- 
talk, 
As sad as the fairest star. 

I tell her tales of elf and fern, 
Wee, happy folk that fly; 
She hears but, oh, where did she learn 
To smile, and then, to sigh ? 



80 



"SALOME" OF HENRI REGNAULT 

The artist has called you "Salome," 

And given you the salver and the sword, 

But I cannot think you are the daughter of 

Herodias. 
Your beauty is complacent, 
It is drowsy and fully revealed. 
You have slept a great many afternoons 
In the open fields of Spain, 
And have wakened laughing, 
To lift moist tendrils of black hair 
From your neck. 
The lazy sun is in your blood, 
In the winning assurance of your eyes, 
And your pleasant mouth. 
I know that you are a dancer, 
For your ankles are a trifle heavy, 
And you would rise slowly to the music; 
But I cannot think you would fancy, as a 

reward, 
The head of John the Baptist, 
Or that you would refuse 
The white peacocks of the King 
In their cypress grove. 
You are not the new moon of April, 
Nor a slender flame whitely burning, 
Nor the young leaves of Spring, 
Nor the wind upon the waters; 

81 



"SALOME" OF HENRI REGNAULT 

You are just a peasant girl, 

Very lovely and content, 

Musing, while you pose, 

Of a festival, 

Or a bright ribbon, 

Or a lover, 

Who is not a prophet. 



82 



FOREBODING 

There is an ache close to the heart of things 

This night, and tears are in the air, 

A lurking heaviness the far wind brings, 

And blows across the grayness of the square. 

I do not know — to-morrow will be May, 

And yet there is no song, no whispering mirth, 

Only a burden left behind the day, 

A shadow fallen dimly on the earth. 

Is it that Spring, outdone with flowers and 

light, 
Has flung herself upon the ground to rest, 
And dreamed, as I, of drouth and storm and 

blight 
On growing things — her gift with fruit unblest; 
And waking in the dusk from this strange sleep, 
Found in her laughing heart mad tears to weep? 



83 



THE POTTER'S PARK 1 

The men who lay in Potter's Field 

Slept well in borrowed graves, 

A world of souls that death had healed, 

A million worthless knaves, 

The unclaimed poor, laid row on row, 

Close in their naked bed, 

Rested in peace and did not know 

A debt may bind the dead. 

In ease they slept — the thief, the drone 

Who starved upon his feet, 

The quaking beggar and the crone, 

Found in the public street, 

The laggard, shadow folk who passed, 

Or shivered as they stood, 

Stumbled into a bed at last, 

For which they chopped no wood ! 

And as they slept, they little knew, 

How in the sun's gold grace, 

The eager city pushed and grew 

And claimed their resting-place, 

Until — they would have laughed, these men, 

Dumb in the crowded dark — 

1 There is a public park in New York City on the site of 
the old Potter's Field. 



8 4 



THE POTTER'S PARK 

A weighty council and a pen 
Made Potter's Field a park. 

A park with benches, shade and moss, 

Green in the traffic din, 

A spot for happy feet to cross — 

The city bade them in; 

Yet strange it was to see who came 

And sat beneath the trees, 

Gray men with leaden eyes the same 

And hands upon their knees. 

A laggard, shadow host they stole 

Across the friendly lawn, 

As they were tethered by the soul, 

Nor knew why they were drawn; 

But sat them down, the spent, the lean, 

Alone, yet side by side, 

A Potter's Field in gold and green, 

The dead who have not died! 



85 



DOWAGER 

The hill fronts my garden 

With patronizing calm, 

Spreading stiff skirts about her 

And looking down 

On my too transient flowers, 

With the inbred contempt of old blood 

For the less old. 

And yet I know that the hill, 

Would never be so lofty nor secure, 

Nor altogether respectably established, 

If something very sudden 

Had not happened 

In her own family. 



86 



THE MASSEUSE 

Very strong and flexile 

Are the fingers of Miss Celia, 

The shadowy, lean old-maid 

Who brushes my hair, 

Or rubs out the tired wrinkles about my eyes. 

I see her in the mirror, 

Working in creaseless white, 

Bending above me with eager deftness, 

An exact and skillful zeal, 

So tender in its assurance 

That I think of her as a sweet, gray nun 

Toiling strangely for the flesh, 

Of which she knows nothing. 

Yet at times, when her fingers sink 
Into the living tendrils of hair, 
Gold, bronze, or black, 
Of a young girl with half-closed eyes 
And heavy lips, 

There comes into Miss Celia's face 
A strange concealed glow, 
A sort of brooding half passion, 
As if her hands were absorbing 
Some of the thoughts 
Passing through the brain 
Half asleep beneath her fingers. 



87 



COMPULSION 

I shall put out my hand and raise the latch 
Of this gray door, go in and let it close 
On me and on the day. The bright sun patch 
Here at my feet will fade, the iron rows 
Of coat-hooks will be waiting, and stale air 
Shall reek of steam. Although the Spring has 

come 
Outside and clouds are high, how should winds 

dare 
To sing a fluttering song where lips are dumb? 

And I go in, crushing with tears the will 
To turn and give myself to the young day; 
Yet this I know — on some far April hill, 
Where Spring is born, there falls a moment's 

gray — 
Stillness on wing and flower and mounting 

green, 
For I have hurt glad things I have not seen ! 



88 



DEGENERATE 



A drowsy butterfly 

With frail blue-spotted wings, 

And the circling gesture 

Of a scented fan 

Swung by a delicate wrist — 

Hovers over the weeds 

At the edge 

Of the garbage dump. 



8 9 



SNUFF-BOXES 

(morgan collection, metropolitan 
museum) 

These gay snuff-boxes will be whispering still 

Of fragrant satin pockets that are dust, 

Of iron wrists beneath a lacy frill, 

Or candles long burnt-out, or swords that rust; 

Here is dim gossip told in merry gems, 

A dallying glance, a hand too hotly kissed; 

And here are crests for pride, and diadems, 

Deep set in sapphire or pale amethyst. 

Trinkets — perhaps? Or dainty souls that 

went 
Enameled too, in colors frail and rare, 
So idly living and so lightly spent, 
They make a music still upon the air, 
A tinkling tune for bow and stately tread, 
That will play on, though all who danced are 

dead. 



90 



NEWSWOMAN 

Withered by frost and heat, patient, too old, 
She wears a yellow scarf and strangely cries 
The news — a Grecian woman who has told 
What different tales beneath what different 
skies ! 

I like to think, when in the windy dark 
I buy my paper, that the coin shall pay 
A certain Ferryman who takes his bark 
Across a silent River, for her way. 



91 



(Stfoe U*toer?foe pregrf 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



